Chapter 138 — Cultural Differences (1)
At first, their numbers were not large.
Even the initial 1,200 Iron Pagoda cavalry were not fully equipped.
In a patch of warm sunlight, they tied iron plates together with leather cords.
When leather was lacking, they used hemp rope, and it was still sufficient for battle.
They were not ordered to charge into enemy lines without equipment.
That would have meant entrusting death to chance, hoping that a few survivors might somehow break the enemy.
Those without armor were not accepted into the Iron Pagoda ranks, so everyone labored to make their own.
Some reinforced leather garments, others layered onto existing armor, but the form took shape.
They had to be able to advance through a rain of arrows.
Yeongu was among them.
Each man made his own equipment and repaired it when needed.
Repair parts were supplied, but the work was done personally.
It had to be repairable on the battlefield.
It had to fit one's own body.
The iron plates, bound with leather cords, rubbed together with a soft rustling sound.
Small sounds gathered into dozens, and those gathered again into something like a great chorus.
On each man's knees lay disassembled armor.
Iron plates were separated one by one, broken cords dangling in every direction.
Someone used an awl to press and reshape the holes in the plates.
The scraping of metal cut thinly through the quiet tent.
Another held a leather cord in his mouth, pulling it taut to adjust its length.
He rolled it between his fingers, smoothing its grain, moistening it with saliva to make it supple.
"Add another row here. It will split again like this."
The words were tossed out briefly.
No one looked up. Hands kept moving.
The cord passed through the hole.
It was pulled tight.
Another hole was found.
Hands moved by memory.
The iron plates began to bite into one another again.
The loosened gaps disappeared, and the weight gathered into one.
From one side came the low sound of a hammer.
Tok, tok, tok.
It was the sound of straightening bent plates.
By the embers, someone warmed oil.
It was meant to soak into the cords.
A hand extended, and a small bowl was passed without a word.
Hands did not collide.
Each focused on his own task, yet the flow was one.
Someone's armor was completed first.
He lifted his shoulder and shook it once.
The plates struck together with a low sound.
It was no longer a scattered noise, but the sound of something firmly bound.
He said nothing.
He sat again and pulled another man's armor toward him.
He took a broken cord, tied a knot, and pulled it tight.
There was little speech inside the tent.
Hands spoke, and iron answered.
As the night deepened, scattered armor pieces gradually regained their form.
This was one of the most significant changes.
Many soldiers were Jurchen nobles.
They dressed roughly, seeming like wanderers of the wild, but the truth was the opposite.
They had families, land, and even slaves.
They believed such work was done by women or slaves at home, and resisted doing it themselves.
When Yeongu asked what they would do in battle, they answered that they would bring slaves with them.
Slaves would repair equipment, set up tents, and cut fodder for the horses.
When Yeongu remarked that an army that could not fight without slaves was no army at all, the faces of the Jurchen nobles turned pale.
They insisted it was a matter of culture.
Not superiority or inferiority.
They did not accept that it was not a way to win wars.
Though it sounded clumsy coming from a soldier who did not fully grasp tradition and culture, the point itself was important.
Yeongu insisted that even this must change according to reality.
That way of life belonged to a time when they had lived in servitude.
Now it was different.
A soldier must prioritize survival in all conditions and possess the ability to sustain himself.
That was why armor repair mattered.
A soldier who could not preserve his own life in battle would not be taken along.
A few hot-tempered nobles sprang up and left.
Wanyan Eunga persuaded them and brought them back.
Yeongu rebuked them again and sent them away.
This time, one mounted his horse and rode off far.
Wanyan Eunga voiced his frustration.
"I was told to unify the tribes. If you drive them out like that, what becomes of my efforts?"
Yeongu knew his effort.
Unity could not be achieved by force.
It was a matter of persuasion.
Direction had to be set, and it had to be accepted.
Even after difficult unification, problems arose when reorganizing into an army.
Yeongu spoke.
"I am sorry."
"I will bring him back."
"No. Do not bring him. It affects the others. He is not suited to be a soldier. Let him handle supply work. He can do that well."
At the word "supply," those repairing armor nearby burst into laughter.
Yeongu shouted,
"Ahalli, in charge of supply!"
To assign him work done by slaves was humiliating.
The rumor spread quickly.
Ahalli, the supply officer.
That evening, Ahalli came.
"Why did you return?"
"I heard you assigned me to supply."
"Will you take it?"
"You insulted me."
A light flashed in Yeongu's mind.
Insult was one of the things they could not endure.
There was a theory that the origin of the Battle of Chuhajeom lay in the Liao emperor insulting Aguda and the tribal chiefs.
At a feast, he had ordered them to dance.
Aguda refused, and the chiefs took it as an insult.
That resentment became the beginning of war.
"So that was an insult."
Ahalli extended his fist.
"A duel."
"A duel?"
"Yes. We cannot stand under the same sky."
"The sky is wide enough."
"You refuse?"
Yeongu stepped back.
He had seen small contacts turn into killings too many times.
"I cannot defeat you."
"If you cannot win, you endure insult?"
"I have not insulted you."
"All day has been insult. Draw your sword."
Ahalli drew his sword.
It looked slow.
Yeongu stepped into the motion.
Before the blade left the scabbard, he pressed down on the hilt.
As Ahalli's eyes widened, Yeongu drove his forehead into his face.
Crack.
A strange sound rang out as Ahalli fell backward.
If the back of his head struck first, it could be fatal.
Yeongu caught his arm and lowered him carefully.
Ahalli lost consciousness.
His face twisted.
It had been a difficult day in many ways.
"Take him away."
At Yeongu's word, those watching carried Ahalli off.
Rumors spread that it had ended before the sword was even drawn.
Rumors also spread that he was fit for supply work.
Yeongu knew how much that would torment him.
That evening, Wanyan Zonghan came.
Aguda was entrusting him with more and more.
He was a man fit to command.
While discussing the transition of the tribal forces, he brought up Ahalli.
"Commander."
"Yes?"
"Here, once something is taken as insult, they rush forward without thought."
"So I should avoid actions that may be taken as insult?"
"Yes."
Yeongu let out a long breath.
Rather than blame them for taking offense so easily, he had to accept the difference in culture.
"I am sorry. I still do not fully understand what causes offense."
Zonghan nodded.
Without someone to explain such things, it was difficult to know.
Often, one only understood after the event.
There were men who would risk their lives because their shoulders brushed in passing.
If they endured it, their entire tribe would look down on them.
Ahalli knew as well.
If he let it pass, he would be mocked forever as the supply man.
So he chose a duel.
Yet he fell before drawing his sword.
That too became rumor.
Zonghan explained everything in detail.
"I will be more careful from now on…"
The words trailed off.
Yeongu did not continue.
A thought arose—that he could not remain here long.
If even this was a matter of cultural difference, there was no easy answer.
His mind was unsettled.
He had tried to enforce military discipline, yet it had turned back upon him.
The transformation of tribal culture into that of an army would take time.
There was still no answer.